The doctors’ surgery was smaller than the one near Darren’s old flat, and cosy in a kind of old-carpet-and-antique-furniture way. None of the waiting room chairs matched. The typical part of doctors’ surgeries was almost startling against the old care-home-esque décor: the electronic board that summoned the patients was almost oppressive, and the fat receptionist in her white uniform out of place.
Jayden slid his hand into Darren’s, and the board flashed. Mr. Darren T. Peace to Dr. Zielinski, Room 3. “Want me to come?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah.”
Darren was understandably quiet. He’d seen two different GPs at the Southampton surgery. One had pointed him in the direction of a counselling service that he would have had to pay for, and ignored him when he refused to do so; the other had imme
